


Cake

by MissMelysse



Series: CrushVerse [19]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 14:57:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20448962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMelysse/pseuds/MissMelysse
Summary: Data is intrigued by the ritual of newlyweds feeding each other cake.





	Cake

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot serves as both a postlude to UNACCOMPANIED, and a prelude to CRUSH III: SOSTENUTO. Half of it takes place during the former, the other takes place beyond the latter. It contains spoilers for chapter 18 of that story.

_Half Moon Bay, California, Earth  
Saturday, 5 October 2368_

The wedding had gone off without a hitch. Our duet had gone smoothly despite the fact that I'd had to borrow a cello and cram in practice sessions in the last week leading up to the event, and I was pretty sure the only reporters present were from _Society Page_ – the contemporary counterpart of those old-school newspaper sections you always hear about in ancient vids or read about in period novels.

Mom had never looked happier, or more radiant, and I was glad she'd chosen to go civilian and wear a dress. The cream-colored silk and tea-length really suited her, and the chignon she'd twisted her hair into matched the dress and set off her collar bone.

(I kind of envied the graceful shape of my mother's collar bone.)

As for Ed… It's a rare man who doesn't look good in a tux, but he looked exceptionally dapper. His sons, Michel and Remy, ages sixteen and twelve, were perfect miniature duplicates. Together, the three of them looked sort of like those Russian nesting dolls, if they were male… and Gallic.

The pianist – because of course there was live music – gave a ching-a-ring, and we watched as the cake table was moved to the center of the dance floor. I'd seen the groom's cake earlier and had enjoyed a private giggle at the depiction – in sponge and fondant – of Bogart the Labrador with his head resting on a stack of books. The actual wedding cake, however, had been kept hidden even from me, the bride's daughter and maid of honor, and now, looking at it for the first time, I gasped softly.

Rather than white frosting my mother had chosen a pale peach color – nearly the same one as the dress I was wearing – and instead of buttercream flowers, the three tiers were decorated with real wildflowers and ribbon. Simple. Tasteful. Elegant. All the words I always associated with Mom.

I felt the air change behind me, felt warmth as my date for the evening stepped into my personal space and slipped his arm around my waist, drawing me backwards against his body. "It was sweet of you to dance with my grandmother," I told him.

"She informed me that I should call her Nonna and asked when we would be 'making things official,'" Data said softly.

"Please tell me you didn't give her a date?"

"No," he affirmed. "I would not do so when you and I have only just begun speaking of marriage as an eventual likelihood."

"Does it take any pressure off you," I wondered aloud, "when you pretty much know what my answer will be?"

I felt, rather than heard, the slight movement of his mouth that meant he was going to respond – probably by telling me that he couldn't feel pressure – but then my mother and my new stepfather were placing their hands on the handle of the knife – a ceremonial blade big enough for pictures – and making the first slice into the cake.

Ed was the one who actually moved their small piece of the confection onto a plate and held it between them. Each took a cube. Mom fed hers to Ed, and he placed his in her mouth in return. There was a moment while they chewed and swallowed, and then their lips met in a chaste kiss and everyone applauded.

"I am curious, Zoe," Data began once the applause subsided and we had returned to our seats at the head table – Nonna and Ed's mother, Elaine, had insisted that it was their job to serve the cake, with the boys as runners. "Is there a specific meaning behind the bride and groom feeding each other?"

I smiled at him. "You're the research guru, lover-mine. You tell me."

"Accessing…" his eyes began their signature birdlike flicker.

I touched his arm, interrupting. "Maybe not right this minute?"

**(=A=)**

_28 December 2371_  
The Inn at the Presidio  
San Francisco, California, Earth 

It was three days before our wedding – our wedding, which we'd already delayed almost half a year for various reasons - and Geordi was the last of our guests to linger in the suite Data and I were sharing. As we'd been cohabitating (my fiancé's word) since I was seventeen, spending those last few nights apart seemed silly, especially since rooms at the Inn at the Presidio were at a premium.

The venue hadn't been the one I dreamed about as a little girl. When I'd dreamed of getting married at all, it was in the church in Beach Haven, on Centaurus, where I'd grown up. I'd wanted the combined scents of incense and the ocean.

Data's proposal had changed all that. He'd taken me to dinner on the Academy grounds and explained that the old buildings, centuries old, and now repurposed as hotels and event centers, were part of the tradition of officer romances. When you were serious about your partner, you brought them to either the Inn (for weddings and anniversaries) or the slightly less formal Lodge (for proposals and other celebrations).

It had been something he'd observed time and again among his classmates and friends. An item from his bucket list that touched me when he admitted he'd wanted to achieve it. And it was a few days later, showing my Yale roommates pictures of the site, that I realized the Chapel on the Academy grounds was also part of that Tradition that meant to much to Data, and that in giving that to him, I could still have incense and the ocean – it would just be a vastly different ocean.

As best man, Geordi had been involved in much of the planning, and we were filling him in on some of the final arrangements.

"In my study of human matrimonial traditions," Data began, as he brought a tray with a pot of mint tea and three cups from the replicator to the coffee table, "I have learned that the tradition of the newlywed couple feeding one another cake comes from an ancient Roman tradition of pressing wheat kernels into small loaves and crumbling them over the bride's head as a fertility blessing."

"No," I said, before Geordi could ask anything.

"Zoe?" Data joined me on the couch.

"Do you know how much work went into my dress? How much it cost? It's hand-beaded silk-velvet. No one is crumbling anything over, under, or anywhere around me."

"I was not suggesting that they would," Data assured me in the tone of voice he'd calculated was the most likely to soothe everything from high-strung Ferengi daimons to angry Antican soldiers to one nervous bride. "However, I believe we should honor that tradition in spirit."

"You want us to feed each other cake." It was _not_ a question.

"Yes."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"You think you're the only one with a long memory? You've been stewing about this cake-thing since Mom and Ed got married three years ago. So, yes. Fine. We'll feed each other cake. Small pieces. But we will use forks. No smashing it each other's faces. No sticky frosting kisses in front of people." I favored him with a wicked smile. "After all, Basil _darling_, it's also meant as a promise that we'll nourish each other."

"Who's Basil?" The question came from Geordi.

"He is," I said, glancing at the man I was going to marry on New Year's Day, and then nearly losing the ability to breathe. Again.

But Data elaborated, "It refers to Basil Rathbone, who was known for rather… stilted… performances as Sherlock Holmes. It is also what my beloved calls me when she is annoyed with my behavior."

"Not always," I clarified. I directed my next words to our rather amused guest. "Sometimes I call him Basil when he's being particularly pompous or pedantic." I sat back a little, wrapping my hand through the handle of my teacup. "By the way, I've decided I don't want anyone giving me away."

"Because you do not wish to choose between your father and Ed?" Data's question was laced with understanding.

"No. Because it's a leftover tradition from when women were chattel, and marriages were mere business transactions. Besides, you had to suffer through a hearing to establish that you aren't property. To include a tradition implying that I am… it sets a dangerous precedent."

For a moment, Data looked as though he wanted to refute my assertion. Once we realized we had no choice but to have a very public wedding – a _society _wedding – a formal-dress-uniform wedding with Fleet Admiral MucketyMuck and Ambassador Hoity-toity in attendance – my android partner had embraced all the trappings and traditions of such events.

I, on the other hand, was still trying to figure out if I could wear my ancient purple combat boots under that expensive silk-velvet gown.

But no rebuttal was forthcoming.

Instead, Data tilted his head slightly forward, and lowered his voice to tell me, "As you wish, dear." That tone, and the accompanying smirk, were his version of "Basil," used when I was being frustratingly stubborn.

The smirk dissolved almost instantly, as we met each other's eyes and the mood in the room made a palpable shift.

"Alright, you two, keep your clothes on. I'm leaving." Chuckling, Geordi set down his cup, left his chair, and exited the room, though I saw him pause long enough to engage the 'do not disturb' indicator before he let the heavy oak door close behind him.

We weren't quite as bad as our friend believed, though. We waited until we'd cleaned up all the leftover plates and tea things from the impromptu party before we relocated to the plush bed with the seventeen (I counted) pillows.

Our lovemaking wasn't exactly sweet and tender, but it wasn't exactly rough and wild, either. It was just… just us… connecting. _Communing. _

Afterward, sated and sleepy and lying with my head on my soon-to-be husband's shoulder, I lifted my left hand watching the diamond in my engagement ring twinkle when I twisted my wrist this way and that. I smiled softly, and let my hand come to rest on his chest. Then I murmured, "Data… we're getting married."

"Yes Zoe," he agreed, turning his head slightly and kissing the top of my head. "We are." His tone was a mixture of wonder and reverence colored with a note of it-is-about-time-you-caught-up.

I closed my eyes, pushed away the little bits of remaining worry, and let the _thrum_ of his internal systems lull me to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Information about the tradition of cake-feeding is from The Knot, and is likely not historically accurate, but for purposes of this story, I used it anyway. Locations mentioned in this story are real (well, those on Earth are), but may not match their contemporary versions.


End file.
